


would you like to ride in my rocket sixtynine (we could have such a wonderful time)

by questionsthemselves



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: (that's okay he likes it that way), Dirty Talk, Don't be like Yondu, Fisting, Kraglin is a grumpy knifey longsuffering man who just wants to be left alone, M/M, Masturbation, Piercings, Ravager intrigue, Yondu is a little shit, also a VERY BAD EXAMPLE of how to flirt with your crush, because marvel, flirt appropriately, he's met yondu now, he's never going to be left alone again, improbable science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: He’s doing it again. That dirty blue bastard of a smirking Ravager is doing it again. Kraglin is absolutely and completely done with him. If that jackass dares to try and pull shit one more time Kraglin’s gonna… well, he doesn’t know what he’s gonna do, but it’s definitely gonna involve knives and it’s definitely not gonna be pretty.Wherein Yondu is a smug shit of a Ravager captain who enjoys taking the piss out of street vendors altogether too much, and Kraglin has had Quite Enough of his nonsense





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired entirely by the line "Kraglin watched his captain brazenly slot toys under his coat whenever they passed a bazaar, often while staring the stall owner dead in the eye." from Chapter 7 of HomunculusJim's brilliant fic, King and Lionheart (http://archiveofourown.org/works/12220935/chapters/28781478)
> 
> If you have not read it already DO IT DO IT NOW :shooing motions: the writing is gorgeous, the worldbuilding oustanding, all around the best kind of amazing.

He’s doing it again. That dirty blue bastard of a smirking Ravager is doing it _again._ Kraglin is absolutely and completely done with him _._ If that jackass dares to try and pull shit _one more time_ Kraglin’s gonna… well, he doesn’t know what he’s gonna do, but it’s definitely gonna involve knives and it’s definitely not gonna be pretty. 

This thorn has been steadily worming it’s way deeper into Kraglin’s side for almost half a standard lunar cycle, since some giant eclectic junk heap of a Ravager ship had lumbered down lopsidedly to the docks of Knowhere. 

The _Eclector_ , it’s called. Its captain has a reputation, a bombastically savage one that’s thrown around with words like _code breakers_ and _death arrows that destroy battalions_. Kraglin hears the fearful buzz that always starts up when the red-coated crew members are swaggering around in his earshot, hears the whispered tales of the swath they’ve cut across the galaxy. 

Frankly, Kraglin doesn’t give a damn. 

And that red metal-headed son of a inbred f’saki? Is by far the worst of the lot. The little market Kraglin tends to ensconce himself in is generally perused by the local population, being enough of the beaten path that spacers don’t generally happen across it. Yes somehow, this particular spacer has becomes a regular. 

It never fails that he’ll waltz up brazen as you please to some tchotchke seller, and scoop whatever bit of bauble or bling catches his fancy. Then – oh, and _then,_ he’ll grin a mouthful of jagged-metal tipped teeth at the blanched-face vendor and just.. waltz away. Blithe as you please.

It’s not to be borne _._

None of the other sellers have put up more than a sullen sort of muttering about it all, since the knickknacks aren’t worth more than half a unit or so, and those Ravager boys do have a bit of reputation, y’know… but that isn’t the point. 

The point is that just because he’s a high and mighty spacer, with ridiculous stocky muscles and ridiculous shiny piercings on the bare chest Mister I-Do-What-I-Want shows off with his ridiculous impractical leather long coat, doesn’t mean he should get away with such things. 

Kraglin always makes sure to glare extra hard in his general direction whenever he sees him.

 

The man notices that, it turns out. Rather than confront him about it, as Kraglin’s half-hoping half-dreading he will, Blue Jackass does something that's worse. Not only does that smirking dustbin fire of a spacer stare right into the face of whomever he’s decided to relieve of their wares, now he makes sure to turn at smirk at Kraglin for a good long moment too. It’s absolutely infuriating.

Unfortunately for his stress levels and fortunately for his self-preservation, Kraglin has just enough of a scolding sense in his head that it would be all but suicide to challenge the man. It might be, Kraglin thinks glumly, he’ll just have to wait it out. 

 

Today had started out so well. 

Kraglin had made enough off that carved Antaran curveblade yesterday that he could afford one of those hot little half-fold sandwiches for breakfast, the good kind with the salty-sour sauce. One of those Klazmir street bands was playing a cheerful bopping tune about why-is-everyone-always-trying-to-kill-them, and he’d even gotten a good morning from the normally cantankerous Krylorian set up next to him. 

Then who came sauntering into to disrupt the peaceful scene? Smirking McSmirkface himself. Kraglin waits in squinty-eyed silence to see who was the unlucky target today, but as the man moves slowly closer and closer, it starts to dawn in his flabbergasted mind that it might be _him_.

Jyla sells large crockery, much too heavy for anyone to casually pick up. Hun across the way sells live pest-control animals No, the Ravager is slowly but surely making his way over to Kraglin’s stall, he’s sure of it. 

“No,” Kraglin hisses, spreading all four of his gangly limbs protectively in front of his stall as the man come to a stop in front of him. Captain Smug looks him up and down, then slowly, lazily, drags his eyes back up Kraglin’s body. Kraglin steadfastly resists the urge to blush, and doesn’t budge. 

“Go. Away,” flapping a hand at the man has the opposite effect that Kraglin intended, seeing as all he does is swagger a few steps forward, crowding right into Kraglin’s face. 

“Or what, darling?” Mister Definitely A Perv croons, bringing bright blue flushing up Kraglin’s cheeks. “What’chu gonna do about it?” 

Kraglin makes a sound which is probably like what an orloni would sound like if someone stepped on it. Honestly, calling him darling in a voice all all husky and low like that. The _nerve_. 

It makes him lose his head just enough that before he can think better of it, he’s slinging at fist forward. A second later, he’s being yanked forward by it as the man performs some kind of fancy fighting maneuver that ends with him flush to Kraglin’s back. Kraglin twists a little instinctively, but the man holds firm.

“Aw, sweetheart, gonna give me ideas, squirming around like that.”

Kraglin freezes in indignant mortification, feels the heat and strength in the roped muscle coiled around him, the way the man’s breathing hot and sour against his bare neck. His knees are going strangely wobbly for some reason, but he swallows hard pulls himself back together.

“Let me go, jackass,” and he slides his tiny sticker of a knife out of his sleeve, reaches across and around. It jabs pointedly into the man just over where most species keep their more sensitive sorts of organs, the kind it’s rather difficult to live without. It’s sharp enough it parts skin as soon as it touches. Well, that’s what he gets for accosting innocent vendors  half-naked. 

“It’s actually Udonta, Captain Udonta,” even as he says it, the man carefully releases Kraglin shifts backwards. “But you can call me Yondu.” 

“How about I call you Captain Go The Fuck Away,” Kraglin says flatly as he turns to face Udonta, still holding his knife sulkily in front of him. So this must be the fierce and terrible captain of that Ravager ship. Kraglin is unimpressed. 

“When you see me at Barbès tonight, darling,” Udonta all but leers, props his arms on his hips, “you can call me whatever you want.”

He’s even more off in the head than Kraglin thought if he thinks Kraglin’s gonna go to some drunken spacer-filled bar to seek him out, on _purpose_. Just because he fills out a swanky leather jacket well, and has a voice like huffer smoke and sex. 

Clearly the best way to deal with this situation is to ignore it entirely, and Kraglin edges back behind his stall with a disgruntled huff. Encouraging this nonsense would definitely be a bad idea, no matter what his nether regions are telling him. Udonta has to be after something, and whatever is is Kraglin's not gonna give it to him. There's no way he's flirting with Kraglin because he actually _wants_ him. He stares grimly off to the side, arms folded, until he sees Udonta walks away out of the corner of his eye. 

It’s not until ten minutes later he notices one of his prize Pluuvian throwing knives has somehow walked away as well. 

That stars-damned _bastard._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin stomps into the bar, running through his carefully rehearsed scathing snipes in his head. All afternoon he’d gone back and forth about whether he really wanted his little knife enough to endure both a crowded room full of rowdy spacers, and the taunts of Thieving Jackass to boot. It was one of his favorites though, and unless another Pluuvian just happened to run into him again, he was unlikely to find another.

Kraglin stomps into the bar, running through his carefully rehearsed scathing snipes in his head. All afternoon he’d gone back and forth about whether he really wanted his little knife enough to endure both a crowded room full of rowdy spacers, and the taunts of Thieving Jackass to boot. It was one of his favorites though, and unless another Pluuvian just happened to run into him again, he was unlikely to find another.

His best jacket is tight, a little too hot for the crowded, overheated bar. He pulls down at the collar, squints, but there’s no sign of Ravager reds – or an accompanying sunofabitch spread-legged and smirking in them. 

“Aw, h’llo darling,”

Kraglin jerks around, shoulders puffing up automatically at the sound of that obnoxiously familiar voice. Yondu’s standing behind him, grin glinting in the light of the bulb above him. He’s shed his full length coat for a red leather vest, flame patch replaced with a full size flame outlined in a dull red-gold stretching hem to collar, bisected down the middle by a sliver of blue chest. 

He still has his chains, albeit a few less than before. His thumbs are hooked in belt loops, one pushing the knife hooked there flashily forward. That unrepentant _jerk._

“Came t’see little ol’ me?” Yondu croons as he steps forward, less than half a foot from Kraglin’s chest, and takes a side of his jacket in each grimy hand. 

Even in the dull light, this close it’s easy to see the scars cross-hatching his skin, wrapped around his shoulders and raised around his neck. Any kind of man that’s survived enough to leave him with scars like that, isn’t a man anyone wants to piss off. 

But Kraglin _likes_ that little knife, and it’s his, and Blue Smarmalade needs to stop flirting and give it back. 

“You took something of mine,” Kraglin ignores the smoky chuckle that huffs sour breath into his face, “An’ all I want is it back.”

Yondu blinks down at the knife at his waist like it’s a complete surprise to him how it ended up there.

“What, this?” He blinks, pushes out his lower lip. “Thought it’d be a nice little addition to my collection.”

He’s a collector? Maybe he’s a slightly better person than he seems. Kraglin tries to keep his voice from sounding too eager as he says, “You collect knives?” 

“I do now,” Yondu shifts himself a little closer.

Oh. 

Kraglin frowns, starts to try and pull away but Yondu digs his fingers in stubbornly, says, “Have some questions ‘bout some in particular, if you’d be willing to bend m’ear for a spell.”

The last thing he wants to do is anything to help Red-head, but he hadn’t forgotten. Kraglin gestures at his knife.

“An’ then you’ll give it to me?”

“Darlin,” Yondu’s eyes hood, voice dropping smoky, “If you’re asking my druthers, I was rather hoping you be the one doing the giving.”

Kraglin makes a shrill sound rather like a squashed cat and promptly blushes bright blue. 

Yondu grins triumphantly, and lets go of him to sling him arm amiably through Kraglin’s. He lead a stiff-legged Kraglin towards a dark little booth in the back, shrouded in smoke and tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main pub. 

 

“What’ve you heard about vibranium weaponry?”

Kraglin rubs his knees together, clenches at his mug full of Altarran gin. Not his normal thing, that being whatever was on tap the cheapest that week at the local watering hole, but strangely delicious, like berries and smoke and something tangy he can’t quite place. 

“Mostly that it’s probably a myth, or so rare that it may as well be one.”

Yondu had gone strangely sober, soon as they were hidden from the crowds. He’s leaning forward, eyes burning into him like laser beams, head tilted in question. 

“Ain’t any knives of the stuff, floating around your private collection? Mebbe one of your suppliers?”

Have the Ravagers been hired by sometime to track something like that down? If they are, they’re on a wild wifferdill chase. 

“If I had something like that,” he pokes at his drink with the fancy little decoration Yondu had insisted the bartender put in. “I wouldn’t be selling shit outta a stall on a crusted ooze of a planet like this.” 

Yondu settles back, eyes glassing over as he seems to ponder something. Then, as quickly as it came on, Yondu was pushing up from his seat and grinning again at Kraglin. 

“Thanks for the help, darlin’,” Yondu winks at him, starts to turn. 

Oh no, after all that there’s no way he’s getting away without keeping his end of the bargain. 

Kraglin’s arm snaps out, fingers hooking into one of the loops in Yondu’s pants. 

“Wait,” Kraglin swallows hard as Yondu goes still as a novahawk, eyes burning down at him, “…my knife, you said.”

“Hmm. Suppose I did.” 

Yondu bends, grabs a fistful of jacket and pulls Kraglin stumbling onto his feet. His arm wraps firm around Kraglin, bringing the two of them flush and _fuck._ Kraglin shudders at the heat pouring off Yondu, the way roped muscle bands his waist, the glitter of Yondu’s eyetooth as he gives Kraglin a hood-eyed taunting grin. 

“An’ I always keep my word.”

The hand not around Kraglin’s waist worms slowly between their bodies, brushing right against Kraglin’s cock as Yondu slowly works the sheath buckle loose. 

He has to be doing it on purpose. Kraglin’s lips part and he sucks in air, short and uneven. He’s not gonna let Yondu see how much he’s affecting him, he’s _not._

“Think I almost got it,” Yondu’s voice is bland, but the glint in his eyes is anything but. His hand moves, and Kraglin starts to let out a shaky sigh of relief.

Then Yondu’s hand twists, palms his cock. Blue fingers tease and rub, heel grinding against the leaking tip of him. 

“A- _ah_ ,” Kraglin’s knees go weak as jelly, and his hand fumble and cling to Yondu’s shoulders. His face washes hot, and his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself. 

“Aw, thas it,” Yondu pushes up on his toes, just enough he can husk filthy words right into Kraglin’s flushed ear. “Lookit you. Feel so good inside me, wouldn’t you?”

He slowly massages his handful, nips at Kraglin’s ear. 

That’s it.

Kraglin rumbles a growl, paws clumsy at Yondu’s clothes. He needs him closer, needs all the teasing warmth and plush pinned underneath him, squirming against him, soft and open and–

“Right then, there you go,” Yondu let go abruptly, tucks the knife in Kraglin’s pocket, and then after a thoughtful look, straightens the edges of Kraglin’s jacket too. “Might have s’more questions for you tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

Then that teasing fucker turns on his heels, and walks away. Just, walks away, weaving through the crowd and out the door, leaving Kraglin hard and trembling and needing in the shadow of the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Write_Like_An_American entirely for making me realizes how much I adore Yondu getting Kraglin all worked up and then leaving him like that. THIS IS YOUR FAULT I HOPE YOU'RE PLEASED WITH YOURSELF <3 xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucked under his ratty woven blanket that night, Kraglin can’t get That Fucking Tease out of his head. He hugs his sad grey lump of a pillow, pushes his nose against it. It’s reeks like mold and decaying things, same as the wet peel of the walls. It’s damp and cold, somehow worse as the last of the warmth from the bar leaves him. 
> 
> Yondu had been warm too, pressed up against Kraglin. Kraglin shudders, fingers digging into sheets. The stink of Yondu’s breath, huffing hot into Kraglin’s ear, those clever fingers working him slow, all that bare scarred-up blue skin…

Tucked under his ratty woven blanket that night, Kraglin can’t get Udonta out of his head. He hugs his sad grey lump of a pillow, pushes his nose against it. It’s reeks like mold and decaying things, same as the wet peel of the walls. It’s damp and cold, somehow worse as the last of the warmth from the bar shivers away.

Yondu had been warm too, pressed up against Kraglin. Kraglin shudders, fingers digging into sheets. The stink of Yondu’s breath, huffing hot into his ear, those clever fingers working him slow, all that bare scarred-up blue skin…

Kraglin wants to bite it. Let his teeth extend, sink in just enough they won’t break skin, suck in livid blue-black blooms.

He rolls onto his back. The smog curls in yellow ropes at his window, pungent sour-sweet threads trickling in through cracked seams. There’s a faint shudder in the walls, as some vibrating junk-shamble of mining rig ambles past. His hand finds the seam of his pant, toys with it. 

It didn’t make sense, that teasing. Mister Bigshot Space Pirate had already asked what he wanted to know. Kraglin slides his hand lower, wraps it around his dick. No one has ever flirted with him like that before, twisting all his words and teasing and touching him like that. The men at the local bars certainly haven’t. 

Kraglin pulls out his hand long enough to spit into it, starts to jack himself. His teeth are dropping too, a pinprick of pain in his mouth as they lengthen. His stud clacks as he tongues along the back of them.

Yondu had piercings too. Not just the ones trailing down the shell of his ears, but his vest had slipped enough to flash the ones on chest. Maybe he’s even got more lower down.

Kraglin shudders, hips flexing up as he fucks his hand harder. He’d wanted Kraglin to do the giving, he’d said. Pin those teasing hands down, work him full of slick slow and gentle. Turn him on his belly, slide his cock in deep. Bet Yondu’s the impatient type, would push back and taunt and urge him on. 

Kraglin’d make him wait. Hold him there, fuck him slow and deep and hard until he was whimpering and begging and writhing on the sheets.

Kraglin forces his hips to still, moves his hand a little slower. He’d fill Yondu up like that, but he wouldn’t let him come. No, he pull out and hold Yondu open, mouth down his spine and tease along his rim. He’d eat him out slow and sloppy, pinning those plush thighs when he squirmed, hold his hips up so he couldn’t rut against the bed. 

Then Kraglin’d start with one finger, add another when Yondu sobbed and pushed back into it. Could probably get four in him before he realized. Yondu would keen as Kraglin worked in the last finger, eyes flying open all wet and startled. He’d slide his fist in then, so gentle.

Kraglin’s not gonna last much longer. He’s speeding up, hips coming off the bed and hand squeezing and thumbing at the tip. Yondu would be sobbing, oversensitive and drenched in sweat and come, Kraglin’s marks standing out lurid in the low light. Kraglin’d grind in deep, right against Yondu’s sweet spot until his head’s thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and he can’t even think enough to beg anymore.

That’s when Kraglin will finally let him come. Let him shake apart around Kraglin’s fist until he’s limp and lolling on the bed. And Kraglin won’t stop, he’ll keep fucking him and fucking him, biting into the meat of his thighs and tasting the sweat and surrender–

Kraglin collapses gasping on the bed, chest heaving as he comes hard enough to coat his hand. He throws his arm over his face, tries to calm his breathing. 

Yondu shimmers in watery reflection behind his eyes, and Kraglin _wants._

 

The next day at his stall, Kraglin doesn’t look for him. Just because he said he might be by, doesn’t mean he will. Certainly doesn’t mean Kraglin’s looking forward to it. Red-headed Peril is bad news, no two ways about it. And Ravager shenanigans is the last thing Kraglin needs in his life. 

He closes up an hour later than normal, but Yondu still doesn’t come. Methodically going through all his inventory, polishing, sharpening and wrapping again takes another hour. By the time he gathers his things, he’s the only one left in the square. 

The lone street lamp flickers morosely, and Kraglin curses a little as he fumbles for the locks in the almost-dark. His backpack slides up as he bends, all the smaller and most expensive pieces wrapped up carefully inside in case of a bold scavenger. Not that they’d make it far, with the amount of booby traps he’s got rigged up for any trespassers.

“Anything come t’mind you might have forgotten to tell me last night, darlin’?”

Kraglin freezes at the feel of something hot and sharp, twizzling against his scalp. An arrow?

“Them big blue eyes of yours almost had me convinced,” Yondu’s voice is mild, in a way that makes every strand of Kraglin’s hair stand on end, “But I traced back through your orders. Seems the last known person with them little knives I want, sold her shipment t’you an’ disappeared.” 

Kraglin frowns. Is he talking about Kassie? 

“So I’m gonna ask you again,” the arrow jitters forward, and Kraglin pancakes himself flush against his stall, “What d’ya know about vibranium weaponry?”

Fucker. Could’ve just _asked,_ didn’t need to get all trigger-happy about it. Kraglin rolls his eyes, turns his chin just enough he can talk. 

“Same as I told you before, jackass,” Kraglin ignore the how Yondu snarls a little under his breath, “If you’re talking ‘bout what I got from Kashmir Vennema, I c’n show you it.” 

There’s a suspicious pause, and then the arrow eases back fractionally. 

“Better not be trying t’pull one over, darlin’, or I might have to leave you with a few more holes than I found y’with,” Captain Asshole pauses, then whistles. The heat and hum against Kraglin’s head vanishes. “I may be pretty as an angel, but I sure as hell ain’t one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Asshole is also a teensy tinsy tribute to one of HomunculusJim's latest chapters of King and Lionheart. Definitely go read it if you haven't!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a blaster to Kraglin’s back, the whole way home. It’s the last place he wants to take the blue bastard, but he doesn’t keep his closely guarded holopad in his shop. If Fuckface wants his records, he’s just gonna have to come along with Kraglin to get them.

There’s a blaster to Kraglin’s back, the whole way home. It’s the last place he wants to take the blue bastard, but he doesn’t keep his carefully guarded holopad in his shop. If Fuckface wants his records, he’s just gonna have to come along with Kraglin to get them.

“Nice place,” Yondu drawls, sarcasm thick as he side eyes the peeling paint and scattering of buckets spotting the floor, placidly waiting to catch any stray acid rain drips. 

Kraglin scowls. Of all the goddamn nerve. Insulting a man’s home, when he hadn’t even been invited in. 

“Got the pad in my room,” he says, sullenly ignoring his cantankerous blue shadow. Safely tucked away beneath his spare coat is his pad, and Kraglin slips it out carefully. A few clicks, then he turns the pad so Yondu’s narrowed red eyes can see. 

“See? The only small knives I’ve gotten off planet in the last month were from Vennema.” 

Yondu grips the pad, plucks it easily from Kraglin’s grasp. He tilts it this way and that, like he’s expecting some new information to pop up if he does. 

“This don’t help me none,” he turns his dark glare to Kraglin, “What I wanna know is where the damn things are now.” 

Great. Kraglin scrapes a hand across his forehead. Yondu’s gonna like this part even less then. 

“I sold ‘em already,” he says grudgingly. “Think the buyer was Pluuvian.”

Yondu jerks back, face blanching. He hooks a fang over his lip, worries at it. He looks like he’s two seconds away from bolting or stringing Kraglin up by the neck, whichever is more expedient. 

“Pluuvian?” Yondu does neither, but Kraglin can see the muscles in his neck standing out in strained relief. “You sure?” 

Huh. Whatever Udonta’s involved in, it’s getting weirder. Pluuvians aren’t common, and the fact that Yondu knows who this is…

“Pretty damn sure,” Kraglin says, cautious. “Ain’t like they blend in, after all.”

Yondu chews at his lip, grips the pad hard enough Kraglin reaches to yank it from his grip. It’s his only one, after all, and it isn’t like he just has units lying around to replace it. Yondu scowls harder, doesn’t relinquish his grip. 

“An’ the Pluuvian took all the knives? Every one of them?” 

Kraglin keeps tugging insistently on the pad. 

“All five of ‘em. Was awfully insistent about it too.” 

A last jerk, and Kraglin finally tugs the pad free. Hah. Success. Yondu doesn’t seem to even notice now though, hutching up and bristling, every inch of him. 

“Fucking _bastard,”_ he spits, shakes himself loose and straightens up. “Should’da known he’d be after them too.”

Who? 

No. Wait. This is none of his business. It doesn’t matter how slinkily enticing Blue Terror is. Kraglin is clearly much better off with the damn space pirate as far from him as possible.

And now that he’s got the information he wanted, surely he’ll be on his way. 

Except… Yondu’s not storming away. Not even looking toward the exit. His eyes are fixed on Kraglin, pinning him like a stone on paper. 

“You know what they look like,” Yondu says slowly, leans in. “Know what the buyer looks like too.” 

Kraglin eyes him, shoulder inching up the closer Yondu gets. Where the hell is he going…?

Oh.

Oh _no._

No way in _hell_ is Kraglin getting any more involved with this. Mister Grinning Soul unfortunately, seems to have the exact opposite idea. 

“Think you might need to take a lil’ vacation, boy,” Yondu smirks, reaches out to hook fingers in Kraglin’s belt loops. “Have a need of your services, temporary like. Seeing as it’s your fault I ain’t have my knives yet.” 

Wait, _Kraglin’s_ fault?! Kraglin makes a high pitched indignant noise, rather like an overtaxed teakettle and sputters, “I ain’t going _nowhere_ –“ 

But then there’s a sharp whistle, and Yondu’s scalp glows vermillion. His arrow twists away, zipping in from nowhere and Yondu says mildly, “You wanna rethink that sentiment?” 

Kraglin hisses, high and frustrated. If it wasn’t enough the bastard had to come upset the predictable order of his marketplace. Wasn’t enough for him to tease and taunt and touch all up on Kraglin at the bar. Now the man wanted him to tag along on some madcap mercenary mission? 

Over his dead body. 

 

Kraglin drags to wakefullness sow, head smarting. He blinks bleary eyes in confusion at the whatever slab of dull grey covering the ceiling. That’s not what his room is supposed to look like and–

Wait. 

Kraglin pushes himself up on his elbows, gut churning. He swallows rapidly, then again, trying desperately to keep the acidin his throat from coming up. 

He remembers now. Twoface and his dirty backhanded punch, the conversation on tracking down Vennema’s knives. 

That asshole has _shanghaied_ him. 

“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

Speak of the devil. 

“Heeelll,” Kraglin tries to screech out implications on Yondu’s characters, vague threats to his personage and future descendants. His head throbs, wicked hard, and he ends up hutched over and dry-heaving instead. 

“Aw, got a little headache?” Yondu’s voice is smug, but a second later there’s a pinch, and a hiss, and Kraglin blinks shakily as he watches the hypo empty into his leg. Blessed relief follows a moment later, and Kraglin takes a shaky breath, tries again. 

“What the hell,” he ekes out, “y’can’t go kidnapping civilians–“ but even as he says it, he wants to take it back. Udonta’s a _Ravager._ They ain’t exactly known for playing by the rules. 

“Told you,” Yondu’s voice is cheerful, and utterly uncompromising. “Me ’n my crew have been payed rather a large sum of units, t’track those little buggers down. You being the last one that saw ‘em, means you ain’t going nowhere until you help me get my hands on ‘em.”

Fuck. Kraglin lets his head thunk back onto the bed, squeezes his eyes shut. His little stall. His apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and there wasn’t a chance in hell it was gonna be waiting for him after however long it took for Opportunistic Asshole to get his hands on those knives. 

The faster he got this over with though, the faster he could get home. 

“So then,” Kraglin says, voice resigned. “What else d’ya wanna know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I'm gonna end this one here, with the potential for a sequel if I get back enthused for this fandom again. Thanks to everyone who commented!

**Author's Note:**

> leave comments to feed the writer's soul? They're like chicken soup, but better. 83


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